


The End of the 19th Century

by Lenami



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Citing decadent poetry because why not, Decadent symbolism, Friendship & Romance, In a way, Loneliness, M/M, Melancholy, Memories, Oxford, Portraits, References to other literary works, Slice of Life, Symbolism, opera - Freeform, reciting poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenami/pseuds/Lenami
Summary: “There is no beautiful thing I wouldn’t find wonderful and lovely.”  Henry ran hand through his hair, dishevelled after the night, but it fell right back into his eyes when he sat down in armchair by the window.“All the tragic things?”“It’s even lovelier then.”Basil laughed, searching for cigarettes in pocket of his jacket that was slung from the bedstead.“I know you so terribly well, Harry.”...Over the time.
Relationships: Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	The End of the 19th Century

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> At the beginning, I wanted to specify that the title of this fic is actually a title of the second poem cited in this work, I didn't come up with it. The first poem is of course “Châtiment de l'orgueil" by Charles Baudelaire.   
> (I just adore poetry from that time so much, I wasn't able to stop myself from putting it here.  
> Enjoy!

Henry would never expect to be last one left.

But there he was. 

He cupped the teacup to warm his cold fingers, looking at the masses of grey gathering behind windows, cradling monumental façades of grand homes, usually untouched by coarseness, now veiled by plain cloud, droplets of water.

Sleeves of his robe kept slipping, baring his wrists to chilly morning air. It was awfully early- Henry never woke early, but he couldn’t sleep lately, taken by a strange feeling. It kept him awake, always lost in his thoughts.

Not like him at all.

_Does death really make one a melancholic?_ He wondered, grimacing at the idea. _But mortality has never been so apparent-_

Dorian’s portrait hung on the wall, its presence always too apparent for a simple painting, seemingly watching Henry’s steps with disdain in curve of his lips.

_Even eternal beauty and youth perished, body so disfigured and horrid after death. God, I wish to be cremated after I die. Yes, then, my ashes shall be scattered somewhere beautiful; on the coast, maybe, to be lost between golden light and waves._ With disdain, he glanced down onto his own pale fingers; his hands suddenly seemed much older than he remembered them to be. _What awaits for me?_

Mildly irritated, mostly at himself, he brushed back hair falling into his eyes with impatience.

_You’ve become merely an idea, Harry. Or maybe you are trying to be- but how could I know? With you?_ He suddenly remembered Basil’s words said once in anger. _Ideas remain. But do ideas live? Do they, really?_

He tried to shake off the echo of his voice, voice usually so calm and quiet, but cold and blunt then.

Honest.

Some memories of Basil filled him with inexplicable dread, more so even than the image of Dorian’s horrific dead body. He couldn’t grasp it completely: something was missing.

_The memories of things all sweet and lovely cannot exist when there is no goodness in the world, there are no things shining, bright and golden._

_It was lost in time, between beauty of moments, stuck between pages of some book carelessly._

Still, he remembered.

* * *

_Henry took off his hat with irritation- it fell into his eyes for a thousand time today. Light shone so bright, it was almost blinding at times and he squinted, vibrant colours attacking his eyes and demanding his attention so loudly._

_“Hey, don’t move!”_

_Over his book, Henry glared at Basil._

_“You are painting me?” He blew off a lady bug from the pages of his collection of Baudelaire’s poems and put the book down._

_“Just the silhouette.” Basil shrugged. “It would be a pity not to paint it. Isn’t it impressionist’s dream?”_

_He gestured vaguely at spring paradise before them._

_Henry didn’t answer, just stared at him from where he sat on the grass. There was blue paint stain on Basil’s cheek._

_“Just put the hat back, Harry, it will be over in a moment.”_

_Sighing theatrically, he complied._

_Devastating words of “The Ragpicer’s Wine” clashed with sweetness of the air and birds singing. It was only May, but the heat seemed already unbearable. Sunrise warmed his skin through thin linen of his shirt._

_“You may read to me, if you want to.” Basil’s voice came from behind the easel, sounding a bit muffled. Henry could only see the tip of his dark head._

_“What would you like to hear?”_

_The wind rose suddenly and he caught the hat in the last second before it could fly away. He welcomed cooling breeze with relief, listening to rustle of trees. Book opened once more, pages flying as gentle hand of Zephyrus flipped through it._

_Basil looked out from behind the painting, giving him a strange look, seemingly concerned._

_“Châtiment de l'orgueil, if it is in the collection.”_

_Henry smiled faintly, brushing his fingers against fine paper._

_“I can say it from memory.”_

_“In those lush times wherein Theology_

_proliferated irrepressibly._

_They tell how one pre-eminent divine-_

_Having already ravished with sweet wine_

_And scourged with fire the most indifferent hearts;_

_having, he knew not by what holy arts-”_

_Familiar words spilled from his lips, the world around them transforming suddenly, not beautiful meadow anymore, but the kingdom made out of ink and paper, build from the countless words, letters sewn together by a poet._

_“It’s done.”_

_“This fast?”_

_Basil put down the palette, brushing his hair back._

_“I said it would be over in a moment.” He looked the painting up and down again. “It needs to dry now.”_

_“Let me see it.” Henry got up and dusted himself off._

_“No, no, drying first.” Basil protested. He collected his brushes and paints impatiently. “You need to wait.”_

_“You are insufferable.”_

_“I am.” He smiled. “Just wait a bit, Harry.”_

_It didn’t take much, but it still seemed impossibly long in the slow, lazy heat of May sun. Henry felt dizzy, staring absently at paint on Basil’s cheek._

_“Basil.” His voice was quiet._

_“Yes?_

_“You have something-”_

_“Here?”_

_“No, not there. Let me show you.” He stood up on unsteady legs, numb from sitting still. As he reached out, Basil’s eyes met his gaze, genuine as always. Touch of Henry’s fingers against his cheekbone was almost impalpable._

_“Right here.” He said with unusual reserve and in just a second, he changed his tone, smile creeping up onto his face. “Can I see it now?”_

_“Not really, no.” Basil got up too. “But you won’t listen to me anyway, so please, go ahead.”_

_The paint was still wet and colours were fresh. Henry’s silhouette, hunched over a book, drowned in flowers and greenness of the herbage. Stillness in his figure spoke of tension, eyes fixed on the poems with concentration that was almost pious- one could say so if they didn’t know Henry. There was something sincere about clarity of the blue sky only disturbed by one, lost sparrow._

_“It’s yours” he said simply- there was no need to add anything, because Basil knew it was meant to be a compliment._

_“But very impressionist.”_

_“That was the idea.” He took a look at his watch and grimaced. “I think it’s time for us to go.”_

_“There is no harm in being late once in a while.”_

_“But you are always late, Harry.” Basil pointed at him accusingly and started to gather his things, throwing them all inside of his bag without any order._

_The same ladybug was strolling happily between the verses of Henry’s book; he blew it off again and threw the book next to Basil’s paints, into the bag. Letting out a theatrical sigh, he picked up his bike off the ground._

_But something was wrong._

_“Basil.”_

_“Do we really need to stay much longer? I need to-” He mirrored Henry’s sigh._

_“No, that’s not it. The bike is broken.” He looked it up and down with disdain. “Or so I think -There was something wrong with it from beginning. Look-”_

_Trying to ride it wasn’t a best idea; he miraculously avoided any bigger injuries._

_In the end, he decided to leave it hidden in the bush, urged by Basil to hurry. Reluctantly, Basil offered to let him ride with him on the back of his bike, rebuffing his generous offer to be the one to carry their weight._

_“I am not trusting you with neither my safety or safety of my work. I am doubtful when it comes to your steering abilities.”_

_Henry only laughed at the statement, enjoying himself all too much, and steadied himself with arm around his waist. Easel and painting were fixed to the bike unstably._

_“You are sure you don’t want me to hold it?” He raised his eyebrows._

_“No, as I said before and I will say it once again, I don’t trust you with it, Harry. Hold on!”_

_They rode somewhat unsteadily at first; anytime they lost balance, Basil muttered curses to himself while Henry laughed like a little kid._

_“Look at us, Basil. Great painter, Mr. Basil Hallward and future Lord Wotton. Brilliant!”_

_“You don’t say?” His voice was sour, but there was amused note in it._

_They rode downhill on the country road with, wind blowing into their faces, finally picking up speed. Henry rested his forehead against Basil’s shoulder, suddenly quiet, but still smiling. Lights flashed red under his eyelids._

_Basil’s skin felt pleasantly warm under his touch._

_“Do you want to hear Baudelaire again?” He asked, infinitely pleased._

_“I do.” He could hear smile in Basil’s voice even if he couldn’t see it._

_“-His heavenly light in black was blanketed._

_Chaos disported in that intellect,_

_The erstwhile temple of so circumspect_

_an opulence, so rich a discipline. -”_

* * *

_“You said Dorian would come.”_

_Henry only looked him up and down critically and pushed him into the box._

_“Oh, don’t be so sullen.” He sighed. “Dorian is out of London, went somewhere with that, oh what was his name again- Campbell boy, if I recall properly.”_

_Basil took his seat next to him, eyes skipping over the crowd of elegant, shining people, awful lot of them, pouring into opera house. He bit his lip, his irritation growing._

_“Why would you say that he was going to come, then?”_

_“You would leave me all alone here if I didn’t do so. Going to opera alone! Can you believe no one has time for me those days?” Henry flashed him a smile, but it was more of tired twitch of lips than his usual charming grin._

_“It’s growing tiresome that you think me so simple, but I will let you have this tonight.” He shifted in his seat. “Because you are so terribly bored.”_

_“Of course I am. Dorian is out of town.”_

_The curtain was lifted and both of them fell silent with first sounds of music. Cantatrice sung prettily, without any faulty note, but it was painfully regular, so far from excellent._

_“I do enjoy myself, because simply spending night in opera is enjoyable. It cannot be dull.” Henry whispered after a while. “But it’s awfully plain, wouldn’t you say?”_

_“Tell me, Harry, could opera be so wonderful and magnificent, if it wasn’t performed in the night?” Basil answered, somewhat absently, sweeping his eyes over the crowd once again._

_“No, of course not.” He fidgeted with his gloves, gesture seeming strangely weary in its manner. “But it takes more to make it art. This-”_

_He gestured vaguely at the scene._

_“-is merely a decoration.”_

_Basil shook his head, faint smile on his face._

_“Oh, how could you know?”_

_“I just do. And you know too, but you won’t admit it. Never.” Henry tapped his fingers restlessly on the armrest._

_“But you can’t.” He leaned back in his seat, eyes fixated on the audience. “That’s it. Because art is subjective, all of your opinions on the matter of whether something is art or isn’t, are based on your presumption of what constitutes art, so it always comes down to your personal beliefs.”_

_“I don’t have personal beliefs.”_

_“Do you? Don’t you believe in art? Art for art’s sake, isn’t that your belief?”_

_“Not permanently.” He shrugged, amused with the conversation. “I can’t be sure for how long this belief is going to last. Stop trying to define me. Why would there be need for it?”_

_Basil laughed quietly._

_“But you just defined yourself. Fluid, that is what you are; you mirror anyone you come across and twist what they do and say. Words from your mouth are never fully yours, no.”_

_“How come you can speak of my nature then? If you never truly heard what was behind my words?”_

_“I know you all too well, Harry.” He said it with amusement but there was melancholic note to it. “You seem to be merely an idea, now too unreal even for me at times. But I was there before you became it.”_

_“Well, you can speak of my artificial nature depending on how you understand concept of someone’s true nature. What is truly real: your mask or your mind? In truth, is really the mind that important, when it’s the mask who has influence on those surrounding you?” Henry pawed over Basil’s last words, with satisfaction repeating to him his own argument. “It all boils down to your belief.”_

_“You might be right.” Basil stretched out his legs, colder tone in his voice. “And you might be wrong. I am no Dorian, Harry, you can’t mould me in your own liking for amusement, as you met me when you yourself weren’t moulded still. I am whole. Does it bother you, my friend?”_

_Henry didn’t answer at first, propping his chin up with his hand, thoughtful expression on his face._

_“Sometimes, maybe, if I am in foul mood.” If Basil didn’t know him so well, he could take his voice to be completely sincere. “But it is comforting in unfamiliar way, to be known.”_

_“But are you?” Basil asked, dropping seriousness out of his tone. “Are you known? I don’t believe to comprehend the whole of you, just the fraction.”_

_“Do you wish for me to share it?”_

_“What you just asked me, speaks of you more than anything. I know you cannot be known or cognized and this contains all knowledge of you at once.”_

_Henry tilted his head and fell silent for a second before asking:_

_“And what are you then, Basil? What do you have to say about definition of yourself?”_

_“I am an artist.”_

_“An artist! Word that isn’t defined itself cannot define. You can say that much about me.”_

_“And yet we are different. It contains multitudes, it can and cannot define me. For a word that is supposed to be defining, it holds all of important knowledge.”_

_“Depending on-” Henry started his next monologue, but Basil interrupted him bluntly._

_“In times like this, I wish your face wasn’t so dear to me, Harry, because sometimes there is need for words so simple, so simple, they would shock you. When I look at you, I cannot say them out loud.”_

_“You speak so wonderfully of words that are never to be spoken.” His hand found Basil’s in the darkness and intertwined their fingers together._

_“The simpler the picture, the prettier frame it needs.” Basil returned touch, squeezing Henry’s fingers hard and then slipped his thumb under Henry’s glove, brushing against the bare skin._

_Henry kissed him without any other words, hidden from stranger’s eyes in the shadows. It was a sweet kiss, chaste even, if one could say anything done by Henry Wotton could ever be chaste._

_“Do you remember how we used to make love in your first studio, in Oxford? Centuries ago, kissing hidden behind the easel? Looking out from that little window there, I could see cherry blossoms in the spring. I never understood the fondness it brought out in me, but I loved it dearly, seeing it with the feeling of your skin beneath my fingers.” He whispered into Basil’s lips._

_“I do. You would always say, standing in the golden sun and laughing out loud: ‘what would Lord Wotton say?’.”_

_“Oh, the sun was golden, radiant.”_

_Basil pressed a kiss into his forehead lightly._

_“Sun was beautiful.”_

* * *

_“Is your marriage in such state of ruin that I am the one with whom you spend Christmas?” Basil said it jokingly, but there was much bite in his voice. He looked from when he sat in bed at Henry, eyebrows raised ironically._

_“Ruin or harmony? One could say that living without crossing each other’s paths too often is perfect. Victoria is visiting her mother, I am here, in London, and we both are much pleased with where we find ourselves.” Henry pulled the curtains open, standing barefoot on the carpet. Shirt hung loose from his shoulders, half open, and Basil could see, from how he held himself- curling into himself, that he was cold._

_They both squinted at the bright light, too bright for morning in London gloom._

_“Look how white it is.” Henry whispered, watching snowflakes swirling and dancing behind the glass. Cool morning air prickled his ankles beneath thin sleeping clothes._

_“White Christmas.” Basil picked up his shirt from the floor where it spent all night and threw it over his shoulders with a sigh- it was awfully crumpled. “Do you like it?”_

_“There is no beautiful thing I wouldn’t find wonderful and lovely.”_

_Henry ran hand through his hair, dishevelled after the night. It fell right back into his eyes, when he sat down in armchair by the window._

_“All the tragic things?”_

_“It’s even lovelier then.”_

_Basil laughed, searching for cigarettes in pocket of his jacket that was slung from the bedstead._

_“I know you so terribly well, Harry.”_

_“You sound old.”_

_“Aren’t we both old by your standards?” He lit the cigarette, coming closer and sitting down across the table from Henry._

_“Good God! Don’t remind me!”_

_Without any invitation, he helped himself to Basil’s cigarettes. His friend gave him light without a word, extending hand with his lighter across the table. Henry leaned in, suddenly overwhelmed by sudden silence between them._

_He watched how small flame swallowed the tip and how the paper shrunk and darkened suddenly._

_Old habit._

_Back in Oxford, his room was always filled by cigarette smoke and full of papers and books he never really needed to have._

_“I still wish to paint you sometimes, Harry.” Basil spoke up, his voice cutting the air so sharply and acutely. He tried to clumsily button his shirt with one hand. “I wished to paint you last night so terribly, with the glowing tip of your cigarette illuminating your face, so I could have it forever.”_

_Foreign feeling arisen in Henry and he let it take him, tasting the sensation, not entirely sure what he thought about it yet. It was lovely and bright, but so sharp and uncomfortable. He wasn’t able to contain it inside of him._

_“It’s all yours.”_

_“And I wished to have your voice as you recited the poem sitting by the fire.”_

_“It’s yours to hear.”_

_Silence fell over them for a second. Henry put out his cigarette and reached across the table to help Basil who still struggled with buttons. He ran his fingers on the edge of fabric where it met skin and then brought up his hands to cup his cheek._

_Basil pressed a kiss into the palm._

_“So what is left? In all the faiths of yore_

_we find no comfort. Things for us are clear._

_What is your shield against the evil’s spear,_

_man of the fin-de-_ _siècle?... He spoke no more”_

_Henry’s voice was vibrant and steady, as it spoke of frightening things, of declaration of looming end._

_Of the unknown._

_He took pleasure in reciting final verse of the poem- yesterday’s declamation of it was so rudely interrupted by Basil’s kiss. They kissed on Christmas Eve in deep, comforting darkness of Henry’s bedroom, sharing the same breath, tangled beneath comforter._

_"You speak of the end with such certainty, such credence in your own continuance.”_

_“Ideas always last. That is what I am, aren’t I? In your words.”_

_Basil also put out his cigarette, thoughtful expression on his face._

_“They do.” He toyed with lighter, tapping his fingers on the engraving. “But they fade like worn fabric, become merely a stage costume. It would be a shame for what is beneath the idea to be forgotten.”_

_He paused for a moment._

_“You should let it go.”_

_“And just because I should, I won’t.” Henry titled his head, eyes locked onto Basil’s face._

_"Of course.” He smiled faintly. “Of course.”_

_If there was irony in his voice, it was hidden so well, it disappeared completely._

That’s the difference, _Henry thought._ If those words came out of my mouth, irony would be there.

_Words, words, words. Always so shocking._

_He was just about to speak- what was it? He wasn’t sure, not completely._

_But peace of the room was disturbed by entrance of his butler- Frenchman, aloof and disdainful, as they always are in presence of Englishmen. If anything, he saw, moved him in any way, it didn’t show on his face which was drawn into ageless mask of apathy._

_He certainly has seen worse than two men who spend nights together while working in London for fifteen years._

_“Good morning.” He said laconically and put down a teacup before Henry. It was filled with hot chocolate. It was a soft movement, almost unnatural, without any sound. “Will Mister Hallward be joining you for breakfast?”_

_“Yes.” Basil answered, looking up at him with expression so curiously concerned._

_Henry picked up the teacup carefully to bring it up to his lips._

_“Well then.” He smiled. “Merry Christmas.”_

_“Merry Christmas, Harry.”_

* * *

He run his fingers on edge of teacup, delicate porcelain chilly against his skin. The tea went cold already. His post, brought to him with today’s paper, was scattered on the table. Words and ink filled the paper, talking about Americans, politics, the stock market, or maybe inviting him somewhere, names of the places written in letters that curled with unmatched elegance, but reflected only emptiness.

For a second, he thought that he heard familiar steps in the hallway, clicking sound of Victoria’s heels on the floor. She used to wake early and walk around the house, already dressed, her quick, impatient pace of her steps infuriating him. She always stuck her head into his room to look at him- and he sat up to glare back at her with sleepy eyes and then she smiled, always smiled, ironically, just a twitch of her lips at the sight of his dark circles. All little buttons of her gown were fastened with precision, not one blond hair out of place.

Of course, it wasn’t her now.

He thought about her thousand pairs of shoes, still lined up neatly in her old closet.

Ghost memory of Basil sitting across from him with cigarette in hand and words on his lips came back.

_“I wished to have your voice.”_

He muttered to himself absently, as if to chase off fantasm:

“What is your shield against the evil’s spear,

man of the fin-de-siècle?... He spoke no more”

_He never did. Never spoke another word,_ he thought grimly. _Oh, what an irony! Here I am, thinking things absurd and lofty._

Cynical reflection left bitter taste on his tongue, on his mind, and he smiled to himself crookedly when he opened the paper once more.

Staring absently at pages didn’t really help with his frustration.

“Fucking hell!”

As the curse left his lips, he slapped newspaper on the table and marched out of the room, not knowing where he was headed.

After his angry steps followed lighter ones- his butler’s polished shoes made clacking sounds on the floor.

“Is there need for my assistance-”

“Yes, yes!” He broke in, feeling somewhat feverish. “Go get Hallward’s painting from Victoria’s old room and clothes prepared for today, bring them to me.”

Going back to his room, he flopped back onto armchair and simply waited, head in his hands, suddenly so heavy.

Silence fell over him like a cold blanket.

He simply waited.

Picture’s colours lost their vibrancy and it left the whole calmer, but still fresh, moment captured forever by Basil’s brush, at the same time fixed and fluid at once, moving and unmoving: Henry’s face- his own face, in shadow, hair falling into his eyes as the wind started to blow.

No imperfections.

No crooked frame, no faulty stroke of brush.

Crumpling neckcloth in his hand, he sat down in front of Basil’s work, overwhelmed with something unfamiliar.

He pulled his knees up to the chest and rested his chin on one of them- comforting and childish gesture. Henry reached out to touch where the painting was signed in Basil’s neat writing, but then, overtook by a feeling, he stopped before his fingertips could reach it.

_Hallward, Hallward, Hallward._

“What a horrid loneliness awaits for me, my friend” He said, staring absently at the beautiful picture, overflowing with pastels and flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no idea if you could share one bike between two people in those times, but they do because I say so.
> 
> Thank you for reading, please leave comment or kudos if you enjoyed reading my story!


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